


back on my beat

by LittleLostStar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Carly Rae Jepsen - Freeform, Drunk victor, M/M, Songfic, because Victor in that outfit needed to happen, belligerently unbeta'd, blatantly ripping off the Party For One music video, drunk yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar
Summary: Victor has nothing he can use as a weapon of any kind. He grabs the fur coat and holds it in front of him like a shield, eyes wide as he grips the bathroom doorknob and turns it quickly, throwing the door open in one quick move.“Don’t move!” he yells, and at the same time there’s a decidedly much larger splashing sound and a shrieking yelp from the tub, where Victor can see a head and two hands sticking out from a truly ridiculous amount of bubbles. .“I’m sorry!” the guy says, and Victor blinks, because—“—are you bathing in...spaghetti?”~~It's a songfic based on the Party For One music video by Carly Rae Jepsen. I wanted this. Now it exists.





	back on my beat

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YUURI KATSUKI. I wrote you a songfic that takes place in the universe of Carly Rae Jepsen's "Party For One" music video, and is a traditional songfic to boot. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd. Hashtag YOLO.

_If you didn't know that you were right for me_  
 _Then there's nothing I can say_  
 _Tried to call you out to spend some time to see_  
 _But somebody's in your way_  
 _Tried to let it go and say I'm over you_  
 _I'm not over you_  
 _But I'm trying_   


This isn’t how Victor imagined things going at all.

He’s dressed in turquoise blue ankle boots, high-waisted briefs (Andrew Christian, thankyouverymuch), a cropped grey angora sweater that wouldn’t look out of place in an Ed Wood movie where he played his own girlfriend, and a faux fur coat that covers everything except the boots. It’s the kind of _ensemble_ that deserves to be described in italics. Victor’s French has been impeccable since he was nine years old, but wearing clothes like this makes him want to utterly butcher the pronunciation of things like _attrayant_ and _a la mode_ and _editorial._

 _When a man is dressed in such finery, it signals the beginning of the greatest night of his life,_ he thinks. It had been his mantra for the past eighteen hours, ever since he saw the coat in the window of the thrift store.

 _The greatest night of my life,_ Victor had thought as he plunked down his credit card, stubbornly ignoring the sign at the register that said _no refunds_.

 _The greatest night of my life_ , Victor had thought as he admired the way the boots made his ass look almost exactly like the peach emoji, only with way less fuzz.

 _The greatest night of my life,_ Victor had thought as he lay in a cheesecake pose on the carpet, running his finger up and down the curve of his hip, his eyes trained on the front door of the condo.

 _The—what?_ he had thought as Shawn had stumbled inside, shirt half unbuttoned, lips locked with his intern Haydenn. Or maybe it was Jaydenn. Either way.

So it has decidedly _not_ been the greatest night of Victor Nikiforov’s life. Quite the opposite, as it turns out. He is a man dressed in such finery, carrying one (1) suitcase full of spare underwear, socks, cash, and a pair of leather handcuffs that were originally a present to Shawn, but if the rules of fucking monogamy and commitment don’t count anymore, then Victor figures his long-standing no-takebacks policy is also rendered null and void. It’s pouring rain outside, and Victor’s breath fogs up the taxicab’s windows and makes him think of heaving chests and sex scenes from _Titanic_ and how utterly and completely fucked up this entire situation is.

The cab pulls up to a hotel—Victor randomly picked one on his phone, because what the hell does it matter anyhow?—and the fare meter lights up: $174.26.

“I’ve got cash,” Victor replies, slipping him two $100 bills and pulling the car door open. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, my dude,” the driver replies. “That’s really nice of you.”

“You can thank my fiance,” Victor mumbles, mostly to himself, as he slams the door shut behind him. The cab drives off, splashing just a little onto the back of his boots, as Victor mentally corrects himself: _ex-_ fiance.

 _So this is it,_ he thinks. _The greatest night of my life._

Maybe the coat is cursed. 

  
_Party for one_  
 _If you don't care about me_  
 _I'll just dance for myself_  
 _Back on my beat_  
 _I'll be the one_  
 _If you don't care about me_  
 _Making love to myself_  
 _Back on my beat_

The hotel lobby is one of the sketchiest things Victor’s ever seen outside of an A-Ha music video; lots of threadbare mismatched furniture and scuffed black-and-white checkered linoleum, with various architectural nods to Art Deco—a curved counter here, a piece of metal trim there—all illuminated in hideous green from the buzzing fluorescents overhead.

Victor blows his bangs out of his eyes as he passes an ancient woman sitting on an equally ancient settee, her silk bathrobe hanging open to show her _extremely_ lacy lingerie. She’s cooing at a pug in her lap who looks like he might begin wheezing at any moment.

This is it, Victor realizes. He’s put $174.26 worth of miles between him and his old life, stopping only once at an ATM so he could drain the bank account he’d shared with Shawn. Getting engaged to an investment banker had once seemed like a phenomenal idea, and Victor supposes that that’s still true, insofar as his now-ex-fiance’s career was the direct reason why Victor now has several thousand dollars in cash stuffed into his suitcase. It’s enough to get a room, order some food, and figure out what the hell he’s going to do now.

“Name?” the hotel clerk drones, his white-blonde hair forming a near-impenetrable shield over his eyes.

“Nikiforov,” Victor mumbles, staring at the—is that an entire loaf of bread sitting on the check-in desk?

“Hey,” the clerk snaps. “Shithead. Don’t touch my sourdough.”

Victor blinks. “Noted,” he replies, as he accepts his key.

“Fourth floor. Elevator’s busted,” the clerk says, all but daring Victor to complain. He doesn’t take the bait, but instead makes his way towards the staircase, in all its red-carpeted glory.

(Victor had always wanted to put a red carpet in the condo, but Shawn had put his foot down about it. “We’re not stereotypes,” he’d said. “I will not have this house turn into a high camp drama kid fantasy. You’re enough of a high camp drama queen as it is.”)

 _I should have left him then,_ Victor thinks to himself. _Should have left a long time ago._

But he can’t sustain the lie for long, because the cold truth is that he loved that awful, awful man.

The door swings open with a creak, and Victor pushes his way inside, suitcase-first. The room is...fine. Bed seems fine, walls seem fine. The TV remote seems fine. The minibar is stocked with tiny little bottles of vodka in lots of different colours; Victor grabs one and swigs it, grimacing as the taste of artificial lemons burns its way down his throat. It’s fine.

Everything is fine. Except that everything _sucks_.

Victor takes off his coat, leaving just the sweater and briefs. He was so _proud_ of this outfit. He was going to invite Shawn to literally rip it off of him. Now it’s all he has to wear.

There’s a splashing sound from the bathroom. Victor turns.

The bathroom door is closed. And the light is on.

  
_You don't want my love_  
 _If you don't care about me_  
 _I'll just dance for myself_  
 _Back on my beat_  
 _Party for one_  
 _If you don't care about me_  
 _Making love to myself_  
 _Back on my beat_

Victor has nothing he can use as a weapon of any kind. He grabs the fur coat and holds it in front of him like a shield, eyes wide as he grips the bathroom doorknob and turns it quickly, throwing the door open in one quick move.

“Don’t move!” he yells, and at the same time there’s a decidedly much larger splashing sound and a shrieking yelp from the tub, where Victor can see a head and two hands sticking out from a truly ridiculous amount of bubbles. .

“I’m sorry!” the guy says, and Victor blinks, because—

“—are you bathing in...spaghetti?”

The man stops and looks down at his chest, where several strands of pasta are clinging to his skin, red sauce and all. A blush crawls across the tops of his cheeks.

“Uh. Yes?”

Victor lowers the coat, more confused than he was before he realized there was a total stranger in his bathtub. “So is this whole hotel just some kind of weird food fetish getaway, or…?”

The man furrows his brow. “What? Nooooo,” he slurs, and that’s when Victor realizes that the guy is _extremely_ drunk. “I was havin’ dinner.”

“In the bath?”

This earns Victor an inebriated scowl. “It’s my birthday, I just got dumped, and I’m eating spaghetti in this fucking tub.” Now he looks down, where a meatball floats across the water, and makes a sound halfway through a giggle and a sob. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

Victor shrugs. “I can’t very well argue with that,” he replies. “What’s your name?”

The man’s head lolls back up, and Victor notices his eyes—brown, kind and clear. He smiles. “I’m Yuuri, you?”

“I’m Victor. And I, too, am very recently single.” The words feel ridiculous coming out of his mouth, because this isn’t supposed to be happening. They’ve got an appointment with a wedding planner next week.

Yuuri pulls some of the bubbles over to properly cover himself up. “It’s nice to meet you, I guess. Sorry about your whole, uh—breakup thing.”

Victor sits down on the grimy checkered tile floor, fur coat laid over his lap. “Yeah,” he sighs, “me too.”

“What happened? If you want to talk about it, I mean.”

Victor stares down at his hands, focusing intently to avoid the crushing weight of the words as they come out of his mouth. “He left me for his intern.”

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Yuuri says casually, leaning back in the tub and closing his eyes. “My boyfriend left me for his boss. Shawn.”

Victor bursts out laughing.

“I...what?” Yuuri’s eyes widen and the colour drains from his face, which only makes Victor laugh harder. He laughs until his stomach hurts, until tears are streaming down his face, and then he finally tries to speak.

“Y-your boyf-friend, and my f-f-fi—”

Yuuri furrows his brow. “Wait, are we cuckolds-in-law?”

Victor nods as a new wave of laughter overcomes him. His face is probably bright purple, and he can feel a little bit of spit dangling from his top lip. _Exactly the level of dignity this night deserves._

But Yuuri is laughing too. “Okay,” he finally coos, pointing a lazy finger at Victor. “You, mister, are going to leave this bathroom and order us, like, a hundred bottles of champagne. I’m going to rinse off and get dressed, and then we’re gonna get _drunk._ ”

Victor nods, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Okay,” he replies as he clambers to his feet.

Yuuri looks around, brow furrowing even further. “I, uh, do not appear to have any clothes.”

Victor bites his bottom lip to keep from bursting into laughter again, and he drapes the coat on the towel rack. “See you in a bit.”

_Once upon a time, I thought you wanted me_   
_Was there no one else to kiss?_   
_Was it all a dream I let myself believe?_   
_I'm not over this_   
_But I'm trying_

Once he’s out of the tub and toweled off, Yuuri is extraordinarily cute, Victor notices. Maybe it’s because his hair is sticking up in all directions from some vigorously tipsy towelling, or maybe it’s because the faux fur coat just _barely_ comes down to cover Yuuri’s ass, and not one millimeter further. Either way, they’re sprawled across the queen-size bed, with ten empty miniature vodka bottles lying on the bedspread between them, which clink together anytime they move. They’ve been drinking and talking for maybe an hour; Yuuri is adorably cute, earnest in almost every regard, so open and honest that it makes Victor feel safer than he’s felt in years.

Yuuri rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t want to be sad,” he commands. “This is not a _sad_ party. This is a _glad_ party. We’re _glad_ to be rid of those guys.”

Victor nods, even as he feels his heart plummeting. “ _Za zdaróvye_ ,” he replies as they clink their tiny bottles in a toast, and Yuuri’s pupils nearly explode.

“ _Kanpai_!” he replies back, and then they drain their vodka simultaneously.

As he tosses his bottle into the pile, Victor can’t help but sigh. “This is so stupid,” he grumbles. “Stupid Shawn. Stupid—what’s your ex’s name?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Braedyn,” he groans. “What a ridiculous fucking name.”

Victor snorts. “It’s actually worse than I remember.”

“Yeah, that’s about right,” Yuuri pouts. “On my _birthday,_ Victor!” At this, he flops onto the bed dramatically, sending vodka bottles flying. “Mother _fucker._ ”

_Party for one_   
_If you don't care about me_   
_I'll just dance for myself_   
_Back on my beat_   
_I'll be the one_   
_If you don't care about me_   
_(You don't care that I'm)_   
_Making love to myself_   
_Back on my beat_

Victor takes a moment to look Yuuri up and down, and then he scooches a little closer and lies back too, so that his shoulder just barely avoids grazing Yuuri’s. There’s a crack in the ceiling shaped like—

“Hey, weird question, but does that crack look exactly like a penis with a smiley face?”

Victor closes his eyes as he feels a grin spread across his face. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he murmurs, and Yuuri giggle-snorts.

“I never can keep my mouth shut when I’m drunk,” he muses. “I told Braedyn that I loved him on our second date because I got nervous and drank sixteen glasses of champagne.”

Victor whistles low. “I told Shawn I loved him after we’d been dating for exactly one year,” he replies. “I was afraid that if I told him any sooner, he’d dump me.”

“What an ass,” Yuuri blurts, and Victor opens his eyes just in time to see him clap his hand over his mouth. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. I guess he was your ass.”

“No, he’s an ass,” Victor agreed, turning back on his side, now a little closer. “I think I knew it, too. It was just...it’s so easy, you know? To stay. When there’s nothing _wrong._ ”

Yuuri nods, turning back on his side to face Victor. “Yeah. When it’s easier to have someone else love you, instead of you loving yourself enough to be alone again.”

It feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room. “Exactly,” Victor whispers, his eyes flicking down to Yuuri’s lips, and then—

_ZZZZZT._

Yuuri yelps as the power cuts out completely, plunging the room into darkness.

“It’s okay,” Victor says, “I’m sure the emergency generator will— _mmh!_ ” he’s cut off as a pair of lips meet his own, and he tastes like lemon flavoured vodka and a sigh of sheer contented pleasure, of physicality, of this slice of time. Victor hears himself exhale in a shudder as they part.

“What was that for?” he murmurs, searching for the glint of Yuuri’s eyes in the dark.

“Birthday present,” Yuuri whispers back. “It’s my party. I’ll kiss if I want to.”

The lights flicker back on, and now Victor grins wide.

“Happy birthday, Yuuri,” he murmurs. “I hope it turned into a good day.”

Yuuri slings an arm over Victor’s side. “Started out as kind of a bummer,” he mumbles. “But I think it’s turning around.”

_You don't want my love_   
_If you don't care about me_   
_I'll just dance for myself_   
_Back on my beat_   
_Party for one_   
_If you don't care about me_   
_Making love to myself_   
_Back on my beat_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life!
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://iwritevictuuri.tumblr.com)


End file.
